Shadows
by Bandit-totheendoftheworld
Summary: Role reversal with homeless John, dark sherlock and frustrated Moriarty. Implied MorMor, maybe more detail later.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything so please don't sue :P**

**Warnings: T but may go to M later - maybe not, not sure yet :P Mostly for creepy surgical stuff... possibly... shouldn't get too bad though. There may not be warnings beforehand though.**

**No spoilers! I guess it's an AU role-reversal.. so yeah enjoy :) And if you did - review, rate, all that jazz. Hey, if you hated it, do the same, then I'll be able to improve. :)**

* * *

The Inspector ducked under the tape and peeled off the white forensic suit, now bloodstained, and handed it to a lackey who was milling around in the rain drinking coffee. A reporter bustled up to him, ushering over a cameraman and boom operator.

"Detective, what can you tell us about this most recent killing? Can you confirm it's the same killer as the past four?"

Lestrade waved them away irritably, muttering about being unable to comment. He rubbed a hand over his face, wearily, as he walked to his car and got in. They had no leads. He was meticulous in his crime, but unlike anything Lestrade had seen before. The scenes were always horrific. Blood everywhere, soaking everything – Lestrade winced as he started the engine, the amount of damage one would have to cause to empty out that amount of blood occurring to him. However horrific the crime scene, however, the killer left no trace of himself. He obliterated everything, wiped everything, noticed **everything**. Lestrade sighed in frustration, and pulled out of the square.

Turning on the radio, he put his mobile on the dash, glancing at the screen as he did. No new calls – unsurprising, really – Jim was ignoring him because he wasn't letting him anywhere near these new cases. He had probably been working on them nonetheless – which could prove useful if the killer remained stubbornly untraceable. He wondered how far he had got – the police computers hadn't found any data on the name that had been left on a business card at the first crime scene – the only white spot in the room. Lestrade pursed his lips, sighing as he pulled away from the lights.

"Who are you," he muttered to himself, "Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

John scowled as he pressed himself into a doorway, the rain getting worse. Shivering, he crouched, his ratty jumper not doing much to keep him warm. He had been thrown out of the old squat a week ago, and still hadn't found a place to live. On a whim, he reached up and tried the handle of the large, semi-boarded over door. To his surprise, it opened.

There were no lights inside, but he could see it was a big place. He shut the door behind him, and then felt to his right and left in the sudden blackness – a coat stand and some kind of umbrella bucket? Both of them were covered in cobwebs, and he shook his hand, grimacing.

As his eyes adjusted, he could see a massive staircase directly in front of him, and a large skylight which let some moonlight in. It looked like it had once been a grand house, and as he looked around more he could make out a chandelier hanging above him. Now, however, it was abandoned, and dusty – but it was dry and warm – for the night at least.

He opened his bag and pulled his mat and blanket out, unrolling them to the left of the door – just in case anyone came in. Using his bag as a pillow, he lay down, his shivering subsiding a little.

Considering his options, he looked around himself as he lay there. This place had been more or less unnoticeable from the street – innocuous – abandoned, but not so much to seem derelict or dangerous. Maybe he would stay for a while. Maybe even use it permanently – there must be loads of places to hide things in an old house like this.

He would have to look around some more in the morning. Now, however – he yawned, listening to the rain on the window above him – he would sleep.

He drifted, shifting slightly in his sleep, completely unaware of any movement or sound around him. If any eyes watched his breathing slow, his hands clench, his eyelids flicker, he did not know it, lost in his own subconscious, until the day.

* * *

When the day came, he was no longer alone. He opened his eyes, waking slowly, feeling automatically for the bag under his head.

A small black rat watched him from the bottom step, her eyes glistening intelligently. HE stood, groaning at the stiffness in his leg, and looked around.

In the daylight, the house looked even more abandoned. The rat squeaked and turned, bounding up the stairs, disappearing into a small hole half way up. He followed it with his eyes, wrinkling his nose and stretching, and then shrugged, walking over to the door of the room on his right.

He walked room to room, checking each briefly. The further he went, the more it amazed him. There were drawing rooms with lavish furnishings, beautiful curtains and expensive rugs, everything covered with a coating of grey, giving it an odd look, as if it was an old film. In one room he found a grand piano, in another, a gramophone. Upstairs revealed even more – four poster beds, with thick covers, intricately decorated, enormous wardrobes full of clothes – all looking as if they had come straight out of a period drama.

He shook his head in amazement, making his way back down the huge staircase. He reached down to roll his mat up, and the rat shot out of his bag, squeaking in alarm.

"Hey!" He jumped back, and then went to kick it, but it vanished into a side room. Frowning, he checked his bag – a loaf of bread had been nibbled, but apart from that it seemed mostly untouched.

Grumbling, he pushed his things back into the bag. If he was going to stay, he would have to sort _that_ problem out. Carefully opening the door, he made his way outside. The narrow alley seemed a strange place to build such a massive house. Then again, who cared?

Head down, he started walking, heading to the soup kitchen. Pausing at the end of the alley, he looked behind him, to mark the place so he could find it again. He saw a semi-obscured street sign, in case he lost his way.

"Baker Street." He muttered to himself. Easy enough to remember. He took a right, looking back again, realising why he hadn't found that place before. The end of the alley was almost completely hidden from view by the tall buildings surrounding him, and overhanging bushes. Perfect.

As he entered the soup kitchen, a fish crow landed on a bench opposite. She fluttered her wings, and then folded them, settling them down on the back of the bench, watching people on their early morning commute. A pigeon strayed near the bench, aimlessly pecking at the ground, shuffling along in the puddles. The crow eyed it suspiciously, then crouched, sprang off the bench, claws slicing into the feathers on its back, hooked beak snapping at the greasy grey feathers. A scuffle ensued, and after a while the pigeon hopped slowly away.

The crow gave her muffled caw again, and flapped back up onto the bench, continuing to watch the street. The wind blew through her feathers and she huddled down, but a commuter, possibly weary after a night shift, came to sit on the bench, shooing her off. She hopped down onto the floor, just as John came out of the soup kitchen. She gave a soft caw again, and leapt into the air, narrowly missing the man who had shooed her. A few remaining grey feathers blew around under the bench, and John pulled his collar up, putting his hands in his pockets. It was much colder than it had been in past years, he thought. Or maybe he was just getting old.

As he continued down the street, a young boy ran up to him, tapping him on the arm. He took a step away, eyeing him up, analysing his stance.

"'Scuse me, sir, but, are you Mister Wats- I mean, Doctor Watson?"

The boy, watched him hopefully. He could only have been seven or eight.

"What is it?"

"I – could you – could you help me mam? Only.. she's not well, and I heard-"

"What's the problem?"

The lad glanced over his shoulder and then back. "She's real sick – she canna get out of bed.. I think she's dyin'. Please.. could ye just have a look?"

"I'm sorry, but unless you can pay-"John hated doing this, dealing with kids. That was probably why she'd sent him.

The boy's face fell, and he opened his mouth to protest, but John stopped him.

"I can't help you. I've got to eat too, and I can't do that if I go around giving out freebies, now, can I?"

The boy dropped his head and stopped walking. John continued down the road, eager to weigh up the new prospects of the new house he had found.

He had been keeping himself alive – just – on the money he got from people needing a doctor, but not wanting to go anywhere that could take records of their existence. He took what he could from them. It was his job, after all. But now he could do with premises – a permanent place for his "business". The old house would work perfectly. Just needed cleaning up, electricity and – he realised that he didn't even know if it had running water.

He turned left into the alley, jumping up onto the doorstop and pushing the door open, the plyboard covering still soaked under his hand.

A rat ran across his feet and he jumped back, swearing. Yet another thing to be sorted. Skirting the staircase to the right, brushing away low-hanging cobwebs, he opened the door to a room he hadn't checked that morning.

And stopped dead.

The bathroom was spotless. Black and white tiles gleamed, and the roll-top bath shone. He could smell soap, and as he reached out to steady himself, his hand fell on a fluffy black towel hanging on a heated chrome rail.

He swallowed, stepping back. He looked back over his shoulder – the house still stood, grey and silent. His mind just – stopped. He stared silently into the impossible room, so at odds with the rest of the house. Something scratched his neck, and he turned, and the towel was still in his hand and the feel of the fibres was too much and everything was black and white and then just black.

* * *

Lestrade stirred as his phone buzzed on the table beside him, grating on his ears. He fumbled for it in the dark, and, squinting, read the display which glared out at him, hurting his eyes.

**_[Incoming call – Jim]_**

He sighed, and answered.

"What is it?"

"I just thought you might want to know my latest findings, Inspector." The faint sarcasm in the Irish tones was lost on Lestrade, who was too tired to care.

"You woke me at.. four in the morning.. to brag?"

"Oh, come on, you know me better than that."

Lestrade closed his eyes, sighing.

"Then what is it?"

"Well," Jim continued "I happen to have stumbled across a lovely little London property. 221B Bsker Street. Only one previous owner, no back chain, and comes complete with one mass murderer"

Lestrade opened his eyes.

"What?"

An hour later, Greg was knocking on Jim's door. Sebastian opened it, wordlessly ushering him in, motioning to his shoes. Lestrade bit back a sigh. They needed Jim now. Slipping his shoes off, he made his way down the hall and into the living room where Jim was standing, nursing a coffee and staring at the wall.

"Morning, Inspector," he murmured, without moving.

Greg looked to Sebastian, entering behind him, who remained impassive, and back to Jim.

"Well?"

There was almost a minute of silence as no-one moved. Lestrade began to fidget, Jist as Jim inhaled, turning to look at him.

"Well, like I said, 221B Baker Street. It's been abandoned for a while, but recently a new tenant has been found."

As he talked, the fingers of his left hand, no longer grasping the mug, moved in mid-air as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. "This has led to the discovery that it isn't quite as abandoned as one might think. I mean, it's obvious!"

His voice rose to a shout at this, fingers spasming, and Seb quietly cleared his throat behind Greg. Jim's eyes found his over the Inspector's shoulder, and he focused again.

"Obvious. Yes. It's a large house, massive, in fact, it's a wonder no-one's noticed it before. But then again, why would you notice it. You never notice anything, you're all so.. dull.." He trailed off, his fingers coming to a rest, and he lifted the mug to his lips, inhaling.

"How do you know Holmes is there?"

Jim's eyes snapped back to him.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Greg realised the man genuinely didn't understand.

"Er.. talk me through it"

"Well.." Jim frowned, obviously working out how to slow his mind down enough to go through the process that was evidently so easy for him. "If no-one has noticed it before, then why now?" When Lestrade still made no sign he understood, Jim's frown deepened, his hand shaking, fingers twitching. Seb appeared silently behind him, gently taking the coffee off him and placing it on the counter behind him, placing his other hand gently on Jim's shaking arm until it subsided.

"The rain cover," he continued, his frustration barely masked in his voice. He began to flicker his fingers about again as he spoke. "There's new rain cover for people by that door. And why? Because the doorway is stepped back. Why wasn't there any before? Because there was a leaky window frame directly above it, which let the damp permeate through the wall, inside it, which meant that entire-" He gestured, pawing at the air, "The entire doorway, and the step, would be permanently wet. But now it's not, and that's because it's been re-done. It's been waterproofed because it needed to be soundproofed. Big Victorian house, coming in all hours of the night, they weren't exactly built for subtlety. And now-"

He broke off, looking Lestrade in the eye. "Now, he needs that silence, because it's so /noisy/, this city!" He crossed to the window, spreading his arms, trying to convey something – Greg wasn't sure what. "There's so much shouting, and the cars, and the clubs, and pubs, and cinemas and bowling alleys and casinos. And he can't cope."

Jim span around, his eyes shining with a mad glee. "He doesn't like the noise, and the traffic, and the /people/.

"So, Holmes is living in this house?"

Jim lowered his arms, the light fading from his eyes, and he slid over a chair arm, slumping back into it, shrugging.

"Perhaps. Perhaps he spends his days roaming the streets for victims. Perhaps he takes day trips to Paris. It's not my job to know his every move."

"But, you do." Greg stated. Jim had been curiously attached to this case ever since Greg had heard about it.

Jim gave him a sideways look.

"It's not my job to, Inspector. Run along and play now." He made a dismissive gesture, turning his attention to the nails of his left hand. Seb stepped towards the Inspector. It was clear that there would be no more information.

In the car, he called Anderson with the address, and told him to meet him there. As much as the comment had been intended as derogatory, Jim had a point. If Holmes wasn't in, they didn't want to scare him off by destroying his home base. If they could just recon the place, that would be enough for now.

The net was closing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

**So I'm glad so many people read chapter one - not so impressed with the number or reviews - which is zero :( I know you might not be bothered but it really does make a massive difference. And I know I'm now probably getting on your nerves with this but please consider it at least? **

**Anyway, this is a slightly darker scene - I promise there will be actual interaction soon! **

**I know it's slightly shorter but Ch3 is long and it seemed appropriate to break here.**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

_In his dream, John was in a nest. It was huge, and full of twigs and feathers. Everything was an ashy grey, and he couldn't move from where he was. The feathers kept falling around him, and he started to panic, coughing, and kicking below himself, trying to get a purchase on something. He felt the old pain shoot up his leg, but when he looked down, some kind of dog or something was biting it, trying to pull him down, out of his nest. He grabbed frantically at the nest around him, but it crumbled, snapping, breaking, and then he saw that they weren't sticks, but bones, and there was something rushing at him out of the dark –_

He jerked awake, gasping, his breath shaking. Looking around did not help to reassure him. He was in some kind of surgery, there were racks of drugs, and a panel displaying CAT scans, various braces and splints hung on the wall above a large refrigerator.

He was sitting in a hospital bed, but he wasn't in a hospital. Fluorescent lights above him bathed the area in a sickly green glow, and the smell of bleach burned into his chest, making him wince.

He could move about – just – but all his attempts seemed clumsy, slow, and he fell back against the bed as his attempts left him exhausted.

He heard a door open behind him, and then close. He didn't hear footsteps, but a pale, slender hand reached around the back of the bed to touch his throat, the other joining it to hold his head still. The touch was cold and alien, and although there was very little pressure, he found himself completely paralysed, the reflexes to tell him to flinch away simply not happening.

A cool breath passed through his hair, and his spine prickled. He swallowed, attempting to clear his throat to speak, but as he did so he felt the numbing of an alcohol prep wipe on his neck, and before he could force a word out, a needle poured a chill into his body. It was over in a second, and he tried to move away, but those hands held him in place by the fingertips. He tried to speak, but he couldn't form his words properly, and he just stammered. The right hand shifted, dragging gently across John's neck, feeling like electricity, and vanished, returning to press a soft cotton wool ball to the spot where the needle had slid under his skin. He tried to twist around to look at his captor, but the movement made the world jolt, and he felt sick, retching, slowly tipping his weight forward, against the restraints, until he realised there were no restraints, he was just fighting his own body which wasn't doing what he told it to. He eventually got his head resting on his knees, closing his eyes, feeling the chair tilt under him as the movement made him slide off the chair, but as he did, those hands returned, steady and firm, pulling him back into the chair.

He stared up at the green light and groaned as a multi-coloured cloud crowded into his vision, and he passed out.

When he awoke, again, his head was working properly. On closer inspection, it was clear the room wasn't a hospital. There was wallpaper – brown with a fleur-de-lis pattern, and a picture rail. The must still be in the house he had found.

Slowly, he got up out of the chair. It looked a bit like a dentist's chair, but – dirtier.

He shuddered, moving to the racks of bottles on the wall, reading the labels. Some names jumped out at him – pentylenetetrazol, better known as Metrozol, Thorazine, Diazepam, Chlorpromazine, fluoxetine hydrochloride – Prozac – Seroxat… He swallowed as his throat dried up. These were all mind-altering drugs, some used to treat depression, some schizophrenia – well, that would explain why he was so incapacitated before.

He turned, as he heard a noise, as if something heavy had been dropped. He swiftly found the door, which was unlocked, and shut it behind him. The greenish light continued along an old, unevenly floored corridor. There were stairs on his left, also painted brown, and he grabbed the handrail, suddenly feeling dizzy. There was a door on his right, and one directly in front of him, which he lurched for, releasing the handrail. As his fingers grazed it, something sharp bit into his neck on the right, and a hand clamped around his arm, so he didn't fall and break what he assumed was a hypodermic.

He twisted as he landed, and looked up, trying to see who his attacker was. As the electric haze swam in again, he saw a pair of ice-blue eyes boring into him, and then he was gone.

The bleach in his throat woke him again. The now familiar surroundings came into focus, and he scanned them for any change. There was now some distillation apparatus set up on a bench in front of him, and some of the bottles were missing.

He could move around, and didn't seem to have any kind of mental impairment. As he stood, the blood rushed to his head and he had to steady himself against the back of the chair.

He was, again, alone in the room, and so he made his way towards the door. Looking up and down the corridor, he saw no-one. He looked back into the room, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. Seeing a needle on a trolley, he grabbed it, ripping it out of it's sterile packaging , putting two more in his pocket.

"Stealing equipment?"

He span around, holding the needle out. He couldn't see anyone.

"Where are you?" He shouted, hearing his voice tremble a little and hating himself for it.

"Irrelevant. Where do you think you are?" The voice was rich and deep, and somehow expressive and distant at the same time.. John span around, looking for the source.

"What do you want?" he said, more calmly. He could do hostage negotiation – though he'd never had to do it as the actual hostage. "We can help you – I don't have much, but I can give you what I-"

The voice gave a rich, but also mirthless laugh that echoed strangely, filling the room. The hairs on the back of John's neck rose, and he could feel his heart thumping viciously against his ribs.

"I don't want money," the voice chuckled, then turned cold again, "Now tell me where. You. Are."

Best to comply. The man was obviously on a power trip, doing this for the knowledge that he had John trapped.

"I'm on Baker Street."

"Impressive. Do you use narcotics of any kind?"

Then again, maybe he was just insane.

"Look, just tell me what you're doing. I can help-"

"Oh, you already are." The voice seemed to curl around John like smoke, and his ears rang, blocking out any other noise. Then it came, like a whisper, right next to his ear, "It's an experiment, John."

He was plunged, into darkness.


End file.
